


Versipellis

by traitorhero



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Cultural Differences, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 14:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16834633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traitorhero/pseuds/traitorhero
Summary: Wolves had packs. It was an undeniable fact of life. It was also becoming increasingly obvious that his son was either ignorant of this, or willingly obstinate in the face of it.Either way, he was going to have to learn about it from someone. Better his father than the Assassins.





	1. Omega

The young assassin was going to get himself killed one of these days. Haytham sighed as he turned down an alley, keeping himself out of his son’s eyesight. The wind might have carried his scent, but he had followed the boy before, and had only been forced to stop when the boy left the cobblestone streets of the cities. As cunning as Haytham counted himself, he had been raised in cities. The frontier belonged to the boy, his senses told him.

Haytham snatched a poster off the wall, crumpling the thick paper and tossing it into a snowdrift. He wasn’t helping the boy, of course. But his walks through his city would be calmer if he didn’t have to worry about the assassin scampering past with a collection of guards following him. His ears still rang from when he had last come upon the boy fighting a group of guards. He had kept his human ears since then, but the loss annoyed him. Although it was rather nice not to hear the creaking beds in the tavern.

The boy was barely trained, Haytham reasoned. His Order had slain anyone in the Brotherhood that could have taught him. The old man, Achilles, if he was still alive, wouldn’t know what to do with a young werewolf. It had been one of the reasons Haytham had spared him all those years ago. Not the only one, he admitted as he entered the Green Dragon, but one of the most important. Any werewolf seeking a pack, seeking a way to train their senses, would come to the Order. It had been a brilliant plan.

Unfortunately, it had not worked. Haytham took a seat at one of the tables, signaling for a drink. His foot tapped under the table, the restless nature of his wolf wanting to go out, to take the pup that was in his territory and make him submit. Haytham quelled the urge, taking a sip of the beer the barmaid had brought over to him. It wasn’t worth it. The boy had his own territory, out in the wilderness of his mother’s people. He was merely visiting Haytham’s lands. The wolf snarled, but quieted as Haytham got up, tossing a few coins onto the table.

Haytham replaced his hat as he went back outside, his ears shifting to those of a wolf. The failure, he mused, was not the Order’s fault. They had assumed that like their brethren in the Old Country, that werewolves were an inherent part of the world. Johnson had heard stories from the Mohawk about their  _ limmikin _ ; men who took on the aspects of the beast, but did not become them. Haytham had met a few while he had traveled with Ziio. None had reacted to him, given any notion that they recognized him as a brother.

So they had given up hope of finding any others. Indeed, Haytham thought, he had been the only werewolf in the colonies these past sixteen years. His territory ran the length of the colonies, as far as he was concerned. To finally be challenged, to have another wolf edging on what was his was almost novel. But the boy was barely a threat. Haytham had almost laughed when he had first seen him a year ago. He hadn’t even bothered to try to hide his scent, climbing foolishly after the man Haytham had sent to the rooftops. Haytham had followed him after that, trying to gauge the boy.

He had never been trained, or even been part of a pack, Haytham had realized. He wore that Assassin hood as a mark of his membership to the thrice damned Brotherhood, and as a way to hide his ears. He had let it slip off once, chasing after a thief, and Haytham had seen his shock, the way he pulled his hood up and given up on his chase, blending into a nearby crowd. It was not the first time Haytham had followed him, but it was the first time that he had seen the boy head back into the wilderness without contacting the so-called  _ Sons of Liberty _ . He had chanced following the boy a short distance into the frontier, only to find discarded clothing and paw prints.

Achilles, for Haytham had no doubt that it was the older man who was training his son, had not taught the boy anything of his nature, or how to control it. And it was going to get worse for the boy if he did not receive any sort of training. The wolf could make a man snap out at friends over a simple disagreement. Haytham had seen it happen, young werewolves giving into the beast and slaughtering those they had called friends. There was only one thing that could be done in those cases, and Haytham had no intention of putting his son down, not if some agreement could be reached.

It would be a struggle, he knew, to get the boy to even trust him. More so if the old man had filled him with lies about the Templar Order and their goals. But, if one could be reached, the boy could be trained, and Haytham could remove a hideous obligation. There was always a chance he would kill the boy, especially if they stayed on the opposite sides of this hidden war, but he was loathe to kill the boy because of something that he could influence.

It had begun to drizzle as Haytham reached the outermost section of Boston. He tilted his head slightly, allowing a few drops to hit his face. Most people were scurrying for cover, realizing that this was only the beginning to a much bigger storm. Haytham smirked and continued walking, tipping his hat to a few soldiers as they passed.

“Can’t believe that savage managed to get away,” he heard one of them mutter.

“Saw Jerry stick ‘im in the leg right before he got him,” another said. “And John gave him a nice cut across the face.”

“He won’t be moving in this weather,” the first one said, turning down another street. “He’ll probably turn up in the sewers tomorrow.”

“Good riddance.”

A small sliver of anxiety curled in Haytham’s chest as his wolf took note of the men’s scents. He followed their trail, cursing the drizzle he had been enjoying. It wound around until he found blood spatters on the ground. He knelt for a moment, taking in their size, and determined that they were from the men who had been fighting his son. But a few, longer splashes, like those of someone flicking blood off a blade, smelled like the boy. And there were quite a few.

Haytham felt his chest vibrate with a growl as his wolf surged to the forefront. He could feel his spine extend, his tail ripping through his trousers, but still hidden by his cape. He sighed, pushing the wolf back a bit, but accepted the heightened senses that it gave him. It was strange, but the wolf, although annoyed at his son’s trespassing, was upset by the harm that had come to him. The boy was his, Haytham acknowledged, pacifying the beast, and admitting it to himself for the first time. It would not do for someone else to injure him.

It had begun raining in earnest as Haytham stood, but it did not disturb him as much as it might have. The blood that had been spilled was still fresh enough to track. The boy had lost a lot, he realized, as he followed the trail, coming upon large splashes of the scent. He could not have gone much farther.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a slight whimper. His ears flicked forward, trying to determine where it came from. He let out a soft growl, trying to encourage the boy to vocalize. Another whimper led him to a hay cart, which he entered, shifting past the layers to find his son at the bottom of the cart. Dark red stained the white coat he wore, Haytham marking at least two other wounds that the soldiers had not seen. The boy whimpered again, trying to curl in on himself. Haytham let out a warning growl, and the boy stilled.

“This hay bale is hardly large enough to hold both of us,” Haytham mused aloud as he shifted around the boy. “Turn, boy.”

His son whimpered again, his features curled in pain. Haytham let out another growl, this time one of command. Before his eyes the boy shrank in his clothes, until a russet-colored pup was curled in the robes. Haytham felt his eyes widen slightly as he saw how young he appeared to be. He had been fully grown at the same age, but his son looked to be just leaving his infancy. Shaking his head, he cast the thought out and grabbed the robes, using them as a rough sack to carry the pup.

He hopped out of the bale, tucking his son close to his chest to shield him from most of the rain. He paused, seeing a trio of orphans, and beckoned them over.

“Carry a message for me,” he told them, shifting the boy so that he could grab a few coins, “to Charles Lee at the Green Dragon Tavern. Tell him I felt caged up, and I’ll be gone for a few days.”

The orphans nodded and dashed off. Haytham hitched his son more securely and strode towards the city gates, intent on reaching the frontier before the boy woke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking through my old kink-meme fills and saw that this one had never made the transition to AO3. With a remaster coming out in March, I thought I might as well put it out there again. :)


	2. Delta

Haytham had forgotten how much he had enjoyed the frontier. He shook his body, dislodging some snow that had built up on his grey coat. A rabbit hung from his jaws as he jumped over snow drifts, heading to the cave den he had left the boy in. It was different from the cities, where the snow often turned to a muddy slush before anyone could admire its beauty.

The small fire he had left going in the cave was still lit. His son snuffled and snuggled deeper into his white robes. Haytham rolled his eyes and shifted, his coat once again falling across his shoulders. If there was one thing he was going to teach the boy, it was going to be how to shift with his clothes. It was less likely to get him thrown in the stocks for public indecency.

His son cracked open a tawny eye and shut it. A paw covered his muzzle, and Haytham almost laughed at the sign of dismay. He put the rabbit to roasting and went over to him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. The pup yelped and twisted, trying to bite him.

“Now, now, none of that,” Haytham said, swatting him on the nose. The pup managed to look offended, still squirming. Haytham rolled his eyes and poked the boy on his haunch, right next to where he had sewn up a nasty gash. His son squeaked, his jaws snapping slightly as the pain registered. “You’re being rather rude, boy.”

Haytham sat the boy down on the white robes again and rotated the rabbit, making sure that it was well-cooked. While raw meat wouldn’t harm either of them, he preferred cooked meat. From the way the boy’s nose was twitching, he did as well.

“Are you going to shift back?” Haytham asked, taking the rabbit off his makeshift spit. The boy cocked his head to the side, obviously confused by the question. “Human, boy. Unless you prefer to eat in that form?”

The boy squeaked, his fur standing on edge. If he had been older, Haytham might have felt a little threatened. But his son merely toddled over and sat in front of him, his head hanging low. Haytham sighed and picked him up, stopping his squirming with another pat on his muzzle.

“You don’t know how to voluntarily shift?” he asked as he tore a strip of meat off the rabbit. He held it out in front of the boy, who snapped it up eagerly. “I would have thought that your mentor would have at least taught you that much.”

The boy growled, turning to glare at Haytham. Haytham scratched him behind his ears and smirked.

“I am not a fool, boy,” he said. “There was only one assassin left alive. The old man must be training you. Poorly, if he doesn’t even know the basics of caring for one of us.”

Without warning, the boy’s hackles were raised, and he launched himself out of Haytham’s grasp. He let out a coughing bark as he landed, falling on the dirt as his back legs gave out under him. Haytham watched as he dragged himself back to the pile of his robes and tucked himself into a ball. Setting the rest of the rabbit to the side, Haytham began to move towards the boy. His son growled and showed his teeth, to which he rolled his eyes.

The wolf came to the forefront easily, covering him with fur and dropping him on all fours. Haytham shook his head at the sensation, and focused on the boy again. His son had backed up in his little nest, his back arching slightly and his teeth bared in fear instead of anger. Haytham chuffed a short bark, one meant to order another wolf to come closer. The boy, still afraid, cocked his ears forward at the sound, but made no move towards him. Haytham repeated the sound, adding a growl for emphasis. His wolf snarled in his mind as the boy continued to stay where he was.

Haytham walked over, ignoring the pitiful growl the boy gave him. He grabbed his scruff in his jaw and took him back to where they had been sitting. Arranging the boy so that he couldn’t escape again, Haytham tore another piece of meat with his teeth and held it out to him. His son squirmed for a few moments, trying to escape, before he stilled and took the food.

Their meal continued in silence as they picked the rabbit down to its bones. Haytham still felt hungry, but there hadn’t been any large animals around. He put the thought in the back of his mind as he examined his son. He looked young, which made Haytham worried. A young pup should have someone looking out for them, teaching them to hunt and play. From the reports he had heard from the Order the boy moved like an adult as he stalked the streets of Boston. Yet he looked like a young pup, similar to what Haytham had shifted to when he was nine years old.

The boy yawned, his eyes fluttering shut. Even though his human senses were telling him that Haytham was an enemy, his wolf recognized Haytham as his father. He snuggled into Haytham’s side and closed his eyes, falling into sleep. Haytham curled himself around his son, keeping him warm. He would have to ask the boy’s name, once he shifted back. It was rather annoying to refer to him as boy all the time.

Morning came too quickly, the faint light streaming into the cave. Haytham moved carefully so not to jar his son from sleep, and shifted back to human form. As he did so, he noticed the boy do the same. Haytham froze, but the boy did not rouse from his sleep. Haytham rolled his eyes and took off his cape, spreading it over his son. He poked at the dying fire, adding some sticks to the feeble flames, before grabbing the boy’s robes. Using the same needle that closed his son’s wounds, he began to sew up the holes in the robes. He was so wrapped up in repairing the outfit, that he did not notice the boy wake.

“Why are you doing this?”

Haytham looked up in surprise before turning back to his work. “You’re untrained, and I would rather not have to put you down like a rabid dog. As for this,” he said, holding up the robes, “it seemed rather practical. You do need to wear clothes, after all.”

“We are enemies.”

“You are my son,” Haytham said, ending the argument before it could begin. “I’ve known since you first set foot in Boston. While you may have different beliefs, it is rather hard to refer to you as an enemy at this point. You are nothing more than an annoyance to us.”

“Then why am I here? Why did you not kill me?”

“I have no reason to,” Haytham answered, tying off and cutting the thread. “You’re barely more than a pup, yet to learn his place in the world.”

He heard rather than saw the boy start at the words. Looking up, he saw his son almost curled in half under his cape.

“I am a monster.”

Haytham snarled, shifting with barely a thought. The robes dropped under his paws as he stalked over to the boy. His son began to crawl backwards, but stopped when Haytham let out a warning growl. Haytham could see the whites of his eyes as he padded closer and jumped to put his front paws on the boy’s shoulders. Almost immediately the boy shifted back to a pup, Haytham’s cape dropping to the floor. He grabbed his son before he could make a break for it, dragging him back to where Haytham had been repairing his clothes. He dropped the boy on top of them, then folded himself around him. His son tried to wriggle out of the embrace, but stopped when Haytham growled.

They sat like that for almost an hour. When the boy began to grow restless, Haytham shifted again, unsurprised when the boy did as well. It had been much the same when he was first understanding how shifting worked. Haytham motioned for him to put on the robes, which the boy did grudgingly.

“You have a name, boy?”

His son looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. “Ratohnhaké:ton.”

Haytham rolled his eyes. “I can’t pronounce that.”

“I go by Connor,” he told him after a moment. The admission seemed to pain him, though Haytham wasn’t quite sure. Ziio had often given him looks that he had trouble understanding.

“Much easier to pronounce,” Haytham replied as he turned back to the fire. “You’re seventeen years of age, if I’m correct?”

“Yes.”

“You should have been shifting at seven,” Haytham mused as he added more twigs to the fire. “When did you start?”

“Less than a year ago.”

“Curious,” Haytham said. “There should be a dry log near the entrance. Would you mind fetching it?”

Connor grunted, his footfalls going in the direction Haytham indicated. A frown marred Haytham’s face as he considered and discarded what he knew about the boy. It was strange and slightly worrying that he had only just begun to shift. But, aside from that, Haytham found that he was relieved. Connor’s wolf was still young enough to be taught, and the boy could be told how to control it.

Connor sat the small log next to Haytham, and took up a seat across from him. He had pulled up his hood again, but Haytham could still make out that he was very uncomfortable. Haytham let the silence between them remain as the log crackled and began to burn.

“You do not seem surprised to find out about me,” Connor said, breaking the silence.

“I’ve known about you since you first set foot in Boston,” Haytham replied, looking at him. “A young werewolf, with no obvious training, in my territory? There haven’t been any of our kind besides myself in these lands for nigh on ten years. I assumed, and was proven right. Any other questions?”

“Why did you help me?”

“Because a young werewolf, no matter what side he may claim to be, needs to be trained in how to control his beast. I would rather not have to put you down.”

“And yet you may have to.”

“But not for lack of training,” Haytham countered. “While our ideals may be different, any Assassin would do what I am doing for our kind, child of a Templar or not. It concerns me that whoever trained you has not.”

“He does not know.”

Haytham threw the twig he had been poking the fire with into the flames. “And if you had asked, he might have at least tried to help. Might have told you that you aren’t a monster.”

“In my village there are stories of men who have lost themselves to their beasts,” Connor said. “It is a curse among my people.”

“Well, in your case it is not,” Haytham replied. “My father was a werewolf, as was his father before him. The Kenway line has always had an inclination for it, even since before our departure from Russia. It seems it was passed on to you as well. Which means that you should be trained in how to use it.”

“I will not be trained by a Templar.”

Haytham felt his anger rise, but let out a deep breath. He knew it would be hard to convince the boy that he needed to be trained, even if his father was the only one able to do so. A father that he seemed to loathe.

“In this instance, I will refrain from attempting to push my ideals onto you, if you will extend the same courtesy of listening when I speak,” Haytham said, his voice measured and careful. “If you are not trained, you run the risk of striking out against those whom you care about, not just those you seek to kill. It is a weapon, but one that you instinctively know how to use. Which means that after a few days, we’ll go our separate ways, and never speak of this again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

It was far from easy to convince the young Assassin that every sudden move Haytham made was not meant to hurt him. But, slowly, Connor began to trust him. Within the first day of his tutelage, Connor had stopped shucking his clothes when he transformed. On the second, he helped Haytham take down a young buck while transformed. Haytham had chuckled when Connor later told him that it would have been far easier to hunt in his human form. Haytham had countered by asking what would happen if he didn’t have his weapons. At the end of the week, Connor had learned what Haytham had set out to teach him. Instead of saying goodbye, he simply walked out, casting one look back at the small form curled up on the floor.

It would not due to become attached. Either way, one of them would kill the other.


End file.
